


The Anniversary

by Cee5



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:40:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cee5/pseuds/Cee5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based once again on some amazing fanart, this is the story of John's reaction to the first anniversary of Sherlock's death. It begins with angst but I promise it ends with love. Hope you like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Anniversary

It had been an uneventful day. It was a rainy, ordinary one. John got up, feeling the cold floor beneath his feet and as his senses assimilated what he was seeing, a strange feeling struck him. He felt it on his chest, like that. Almost as powerful as a real physical pain. No, not as much. More than. He took a deep breath and stood like that for a while, his fingers holding the white sheets, afraid he would lose his balance if he got up too fast. He allowed the feeling to subside, to let go of him, the same way you wait for the thunderstorm to pass hoping it doesn't make too much damage. He then stood up, arms aligned with the body.

He put the kettle on as the wind resounded, entering through the small gaps on the door, and the sound of the boiling water made him company for a while. He knew there was no use in calling Mrs. Hudson, she had gone to her sister's on holidays. Despite Sherlock's belief, England did not fall. Not literally, because to John it did seem the whole world was a wreck. He tried to keep the words, the thoughts away, but it was no use.

It was the anniversary of Sherlock's death. One year had gone by. One year of questions and guilt and loneliness. Mainly loneliness. John never thought he would have to go through the same he went through after coming back from Afghanistan. Now, he was going through worse, much worse. He had found a friend after so many years just to lose him. Maybe Sherlock wasn't all that wrong. Maybe sentiment was overrated, maybe a life of not caring was much easier to live. It didn't matter now.

John looked outside the window and put his coat on, leaving the flat, the tea abandoned on the sink, untouched. He closed the door as he left and he stopped at the florist before taking a cab. As he headed to the cemetery the rain stopped and his steps made thudding sounds as he walked on the dirt. He stopped by the grave, staring. He got down on one knee and placed the flowers next to the grave.

"Happy Anniversary, Sherlock."

It was still strange for him to be celebrating the anniversary of his friend's death, but then again, that was not a celebration. It was a mourning, A mourning that had lasted for a year and would most likely last forever. John got up and straightened up, the pose of a soldier, the pain of a common man. He turned around and left, without looking back.

Late at night, when the rain began again and no star was visible on the cloudy sky, a shadow came from between the trees, pacing carefully. Sherlock approached his own grave and saw the flowers, knowing exactly who had placed them there. He had come to the cemetery in the hope that someone had remembered him and, without a doubt, his only friend had. He sat on the dirt, back against the gravestone, and held the flowers in his arms.

"Happy anniversary, John." he whispered.

Knowing John still thought about him made him smile. It was selfish, and he shouldn't be happy of the pain he was still inflicting on the doctor, but he couldn't help but enjoying it. All this time he had thought he was alone in the world again. He wasn't.

He took the flowers with him as he went away and when they withered he kept one inside his favourite book. Once in a while, when the distance hurt more than usual, he would look at the flower and remember why he was giving up on so much.

After his visit to the cemetery, John had rummaged through the city, wandering around without taking notice where he was going. As the day started to become night he walked into a bar and sat all by himself, and ordered a beer. He stood there for a while, watching as the cars passed by. He paid the bartender and left. He stepped outside, the pouring rain on his face. As he raised his hand to get a taxi the rain stopped. He looked to his side and he saw her there, holding a big umbrella over his head and smiling.

"It's not very clever not to carry an umbrella in London, you know?"

"I don't own an umbrella." John said, shrugging.

"You can borrow mine if you want." she offered.

John smiled.

"Well, that's not very clever either. Then you will be the one without an umbrella in London."

It was her time to smile now.

"I suppose you will have to borrow the umbrella and me." she added, simply.

John laughed, the first sincere laugh in a whole year.

"I would very much like to borrow you, yes." he admitted, looking into her eyes. "With or without the umbrella."

"Let's go, then." she said, as a taxi finally stopped to take them home.

They got into the taxi, the wet umbrella placed by their feet. John sensed her eyes placed on him and smiled again.

"I live in Baker Street and I can make some very nice tea." he said. "Would you like to try it? My name is John, by the way."

He extended a hand that she grabbed.

"Are you trying to seduce me, John?" she asked, playfully.

"I guess that's the least I can do, since I am supposed to be borrowing you and your umbrella and all."

"Good." she said. "That tea better be worth it, otherwise you will have to make an extra effort on our second date."

Her hand was still in his and it felt warm, and it fit just right.

"My name is Mary." she said, staring away from him and outside the window, still smiling.

Mary. John liked the way her name sounded when he thought of it. And he liked her manners even more. Little did he know that Mary was the answer to all his pleas of the last year, the safe haven, the shelter from the rain. The one he had borrowed without asking and would eventually become his own.


End file.
